


Endgame: Genosha

by Ook



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Harm to children discussed, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mindfuck, Oneshot, Secret Identity, Spies, Spying, The fall of empires, an actual one shot., by God!, like that is a shock, threats of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4144575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genosha falls a mere four years after its founding. The hardest thing, the hurtful thing, Charles thinks, voice and hands frantically occupied with last-ditch orders, is that the brave new country he gave up everything to serve does not fall to baseline aggression, (which had been a risk; he acknowledges, in the President’s bold stance against the baseline world) but to other mutants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endgame: Genosha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kernezelda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kernezelda/gifts).



> So. While wrestling with my new longfic, which is going so SLOOOOOOW, this short fic- about spies, about identity, about Charles, and about Erik fell out of my brain. Enjoy! 
> 
> For Kernezelda, because she is an awesome beta and a good person who deserves nice things, and this is the nearest thing to a nice thing I've got.

Genosha falls a mere four years after its founding.

It’s not some slow decline, a fading thing. Genosha falls in fire and explosions, sudden armies attacking in the night. Genosha falls astonishingly quickly, at the last.

The hardest thing, the hurtful thing, Charles thinks, voice and hands frantically occupied with last-ditch orders, is that the brave new country he gave up everything to serve does not fall to baseline aggression, (which had been a risk; he acknowledges, in the President’s bold stance against the baseline world) but to other mutants.

The sentries are shouting. Charles cannot raise the patrol boats, not by phone or radio or mind. 

They should have been allies. They had a treaty, although the President had known it would not last long. He had thought it would last longer than this. He had thought his would be the winning side. Instead, Charles is staring at a sea port erupting in flames. There’s a vicious, directed edge to them; mutants spear-heading the attack on their own.

The double doors swing open behind him, and tall, elegant man enters briskly, surrounded by a swirl of tense bodyguards. Warned by the odd blankness a shielded mind produces, Charles automatically rises from his desk to drop to one knee as the President approaches. Impatiently, he’s waved up.

“No time for niceties, Charles; though I appreciate your… self-control.” He adjusts his heavy, gleaming helmet. Absently Charles notes that the President has chosen a model without a diadem. It’s plain enough to be military-issue.

“Control you taught me, sir,” Charles says, standing, and the President, strained and weary, flashes him a viciously approving smile. Charles relaxes. He does not recall those lessons in every detail; but he remembers the consequences of being a slow learner, oh yes.

“How stand the city defences?” He moves closer to Charles, and the telepath can’t prevent the tiny twitch—no longer a flinch, not after so long—as his shoulder is grasped. “Don’t hold back, now.”

Charles puts a hand to his temple, scans. “They won’t hold much longer, sir.” It’s surprising. “I’m… re-directing focus to weak spots but—there are so many of them. And—” He stops, swallows. “Shielding. Many of them are shielded and I—” The President’s hand on his shoulder has become crushingly tight. “Sir,” Charles says, tightly.

“Do what you can. We need as much information on what’s out there before—” There’s an explosion loud enough to rattle the armoured windows, and a brilliant gout of red-back fire bursts upwards. The painful grip on Charles’s shoulder eases just a little.

“He hit the fuel depot. Ah, my old friend,” says the President of Genosha, almost fondly, to the window. “Still with your little grudges, I see.” Something else explodes, more quietly.

Charles scans again. “I can’t locate him—or—or any other leaders—it’s—”

“Try harder.”

Charles stifles a cry of pain as his shoulder bruises further; and stretches out his mind, but he can’t—it’s all vague, blurs of motion and intent; but nothing clearer. Nothing to get hold of. It slides away from his mind, time after scrambling time.

“They must have—their scientist, McCoy—a new device?” Charles head is ringing; and there’s an echo in his ears. Something is wrong; something is so very wrong, and it hurts. “They’re getting closer. He sways, dizzy and confused. Beside him, the President snorts, disappointed, and Charles staggers a step forwards when the hand finally releases him.

“A new device?”

“Anti-telepathy; they must have—I’m your last line of defence, sir,” Charles reminds him. He doesn’t flex his shoulder. “If you think this is personal as well as—”

“Oh, I know him well, and he knows me.” He chuckles. “We agree on a few things. Survival of the fittest, and so on. Might be him, this time. Still, I’ve—”

A new officer hurries in. Charles doesn’t know this one by sight; so he lifts a few details as he makes his report.

Jason. Armoured skin; with them since the beginning. And then he hears what the man is saying, the words horrified and fearful.

“-received orders about the hostages—”

“The children are not hostages,” Charles says, sharply. “They are Genosha’s future.”

“We could just—the gen pop won’t hurt them,” Jason says. “They’re—they come from—”

Charles shakes his head. 

The body guards are silent. He recognises those altruistic impulses—had to fight hard against them himself when he first read the orders. The President had been able to be understanding then; had taken the time to teach Charles much about loyalty to the cause. Now—now there is no time left, for Jason.

“It’s only natural we should protect them,” the President says, quiet and sincere. “Indeed, that’s what we’re doing. What kind of men would we be if we let them grow up to be taught lies, to be twisted into our enemies—and the enemies of mutant-kind?”

“But sir—” Jason swallows, and pales further. “There are over thirty of them, there’s not—none are over twelve! The sub is fully equipped, the pilots are on board, it—”

“Won’t take more than five adults, let alone thirty children,” Charles points out.

“Sir, _please—”_

“You have your orders,” the President says, softly, warning. “Do you feel you are unable to carry them out?”

Jason swallows again. His shoulders slump. He looks up, and his voice is calm, quiet.

“No sir. I mean, yes, sir. I can’t.” Defeated.

The President reaches out; the nearest body guard—a teenager—hands him a gun. Jason looks up, the bullet drills between his eyes almost before Charles can brace himself against the backlash of a sudden death so close. He falls, and the thump of the body hitting the carpet is almost an afterthought

“David,” Charles says to the teen, head still reeling from the death and from the chaos growing ever-closer. “Obey orders. Secure the children.” He hands him his own gun. David takes the gun, and nods, once.

“Go,” the President says. David goes.

“Sir,” Charles says. “Time for you to go, too.” It’s time and past time for that, really. It’s a long way through the tunnels under the Palace to the submarine, so carefully packed with weapons and valuables for the select few.

“Let us go then.” He turns, and pauses when it becomes clear that Charles isn’t shadowing him as expected. “Charles?” He raises an eyebrow.

 _Don’t cringe._ He draws a steadying breath. _He hates it when you cringe. Just remind him you can be useful-_

“I’ll cover your retreat,” Charles says, tightly, aloud. “We don’t know—my telepathy is useless to me right now; but what if—what if they could turn it against you?”

The President nods, slowly.

“You were on the shortlist,” he says, regretful. “Your gift has the most interesting—”

“We don’t know if telepathy breeds true,” Charles reminds him. “Go, sir. I’ll cover you.”

They move.

The Palace itself is in chaos now, easy for Charles to pilot their little group through unnoticed, despite his bizarrely reduced powers. They lose the last two bodyguards to crossfire at the final choke point before the secret staircase becomes, well, secret.

“Charles,” the President says, as he turns to slip into the hidden door. “I will remember you. When I—we rebuild, Future Genosha will recall your sacri—”

“Just go, Sebastian!” Charles snaps, wheeling to slide the bookcase back over the door. The last Charles hears of the President of Genosha is Sebastian Shaw’s amused chuckle, dying out into the distance.

Alone, Charles waits, tucked in the little library they decided—Sebastian decided—to camouflage the final retreat with. His palms are sweaty; angrily he wipes his hands against his uniform, and hides himself by the door. He keeps a timer going, in his head. Ten minutes down the stairs, into the tunnels; and then an hour or more along the tunnels, twenty minutes to prep the sub for immediate launch…

Sebastian is maybe half an hour into the tunnels, when someone approaches the door. Charles flicks out his mind and finds the enemy. Unshielded, of all the luck. A woman; fiercely disciplined in mind, with an underlying thread of fear. Charles draws a breath, focus his mind, and lashes out as his four-years mentor has taught him.

 

Nothing happens. By rights this girl—Mystique; one of their leaders, he thinks—should have dropped to the floor, dead or mad the second Charles attacked, but—he couldn’t. Charles’ telepathy had _recoiled_ from her, as if it was growing a mind of its own and—

“Who’s—Charles!” She bursts into the room; and Charles was right, it is Mystique, blue and bare, golden eyes wide with an emotion he doesn’t recognise.

“Stay back!” Charles yells as she comes in. “I’ve a gun!” He points it at her and finds it impossible to aim; he hopes she doesn’t notice the wavering barrel.

She freezes.

“Charles.” She raises her hand, clicks some fast code on the radio she’s wearing.

“You won’t—you won’t get away with this,” Charles says. “He’s stronger than that; he’ll come back. You’ll see.”

“He?”

“Sebastian,” Charles says. “Sebastian Shaw, the leader—”

“You’re still under,” she says, incomprehensibly. 

Charles narrows his eyes at her. He steps sideways, circling towards the small table and chair. If he can’t use the gun, then perhaps the chair—

No use. He can’t pick it up. What is going on-?

“Who’s in my head?” he says, sharply, biting down on the choking fear. He cannot sense who is manipulating him; but someone must be. It’s the only explanation. “Who’s in my—who’s using me? I thought your lot were above all that—”

“Charles, wait,” Mystique turns her head, briefly. Charles tries to rush her, and finds himself stumbling over the table, breaking the decanter and scattering the books onto the floor.

“Stand down, Charles.” An inrush of air, and a paff! of smoke announce the arrival of a teleporter, the crimson-skinned one, and another tall man, with a lot of teeth. Charles recognises him.

“Magneto.” He moves back, back to his spine is touching the books. He can aim the gun now, so he does.

“No one’s in your head right now, Charles,” Magneto says, gently; impossibly gently. Charles’ finger spasms on the trigger. At least he’ll go down shooting—

The safety’s on. Magneto smirks. The safety refuses to move. Charles can’t even—

“Charles,” Mystique says, gently. “It’s time.”

“Charles,” the scarlet-skinned man says low and quiet. “Listen to me.”

Charles snorts. Finds out he can’t point the gun at him, either.

“You don’t know me,” Charles says, burnt by the kindness in their eyes. “You don’t—” he reverses the gun, jams it into the soft skin under his jaw. He won’t be a plaything, a puppet again. He fought his way out of his childhood, survived long enough for Sebastian to find him worthy and recruit him to Genosha’s cause.

No one owns him. He will not betray the man who made him.

The safety moves, now. Interesting.

“Erik,” Mystique says, clearly alarmed.

Charles takes a moment to grin at them. If denying them their new tool the only victory is he can seize here, then suicide—

“Az, take her. Find the president, he can’t be far.” They vanish. Charles refocuses on the only threat remaining. He tries to squeeze the trigger again. His head remains irritatingly intact.

 _“Listen to me,”_ Magneto says, urgently. “Star. Hazelnut. Lark. Athena.”

Charles’s hand opens nervelessly. The gun drops from it to thump softly on the carpet.

“No,” Charles says, but his voice is weak and shaky and there’s a cold fire in his mind. “No, please, not my—my head, my head—” He backs away, blinded by pain, and more scared than he’s ever been in his life.

“I’m sorry. I promised I’d do this, Charles.” He sounds so sincere.

Charles just cannot understand what’s happening, why a minor telepathic assistant to the president rates the attention of the major leaders of Sebastian’s enemies. Why is Magneto here, and not pursing Sebastian down the tunnel Charles is trying to guard? It must be obvious he can’t stop him. His head is agony.

“Promised who?” Charles can barely speak. Nothing makes sense.

“Star,” Magneto says again, instead of answering. “Hazelnut.”

The cold fire surges, and there’s an ocean in Charles’s head rising, a tsunami, and he’s going to be swamped out of existence by it. Charles lunges for the broken glass; if he can’t shoot himself, maybe the broken glass will do, open his throat with that. Anything. He grabs for it, ignoring the slicing pain as he seizes the jagged piece—

“Lark.” His voice is steely with purpose, eyes dark pools of sorrow that baffle Charles. He isn’t stopping this string of deadly, nonsense syllables. “Athena.”

“Ah!” Charles’ legs give out, and he’s falling, falling.

Into someone’s arms. How had the other man moved so fast? Why had he caught Charles at all? What—

“Star,” Erik says, very close to Charles’ ear, and the word is a detonation.

“Hazelnut.” Another explosion and Charles is down, down on his knees. “Lark.” His face is buried in Erik’s chest, fist gripping weakly at his shoulder and he can’t—He can’t—

“No, no, no—” Convulsing, now, but he can still hear Erik’s voice, still hear—the final nail hammered into the coffin

_“Athena.”_

Black nothing descends.

The only sound in the room when Charles comes back is his and Erik’s breathing.

“Charles, are you—” Erik bends over him, peers in his eyes anxiously.

“It’s me,” Charles say, carefully. He thinks about sitting up, and decides that actually, Erik’s embrace is a better location. He feels weak and shaky; as if a fever had just broken.

“You’re back,” Erik says, with some relief.

“I didn’t exactly go away,” Charles reminds him, dryly.

“You tried to shoot yourself,” Erik says, in mingled disbelief and horror.

“Yes, in a room with you in it.” He smiles, briefly, and so does Erik.

Charles stiffens as memory swamps him. “Erik! The children, my god, the children—he—I let—Executive Order 67—”

“Calm down,” Erik says, holding Charles tight. “No—it’s—”

“But he’ll shoot them-!”

“You recruited David a year ago,” Erik reminds him. “A capsule agent, like you.”

“But—”

“You gave him your gun Charles; that was his trigger. They’re safe. Az took them to a safe house as soon as he got to them, before we stumbled over you.”

“I—My memory is all to pieces,” Charles admits.

“Four years,” Erik murmurs, pained. “I should never have let you—”

“Excuse me, you did—do—not ‘let’ or prevent me from doing anything.” Charles sits up, crossly. “Do you?”

“No, Charles,” Erik says, meekly. He rises to his feet, pulls Charles up with him. The world swirls alarmingly. Charles clings to his dignity and Erik as hard as he can.

“You’d better not be agreeing with me because—”

“Of course not, Charles,” Erik says, and Charles can _feel_ him laughing, the bastard. 

“Stop that.” Charles steps away from Erik to stand by himself, gingerly. Erik reaches for him again as soon as he falters.

“Come on.” He breathes, still so gentle. “Let’s go close the trap on Sebastian Shaw.”


End file.
